Year || 503 Season || Fall Temp || 35℉ (℃) - 69℉ (℃) Weather || The iron grip of Summer has slowly faded into the gentler Fall embrace. The morning dew frosts over in the early morning hours and melts by the time the sun hits high in the sky. Many of the trees have traded their lush, vivid green for a more suitable array of red and orange hues. But don't blink, for Winter's cold embrace is fast upon Fall's heels.

"Are there lines she's crossing? Should she toe them or touch them with a pole and stay away wholly? But to avoid such a storm he offers, such a taste of life; to withhold herself from the chance to taste starlight, to love satin and silk and swallow pomegranate seeds not yet offered... She should be stronger." — Moira in Small as a wish in a well

Pavetta wore her best; intricate clothing and delicate jewelry that had been locked in a floral carved wooden chest that gathered dust in its disuse. She could not remember a time when there had been a happy enough occasion to wear and flaunt such finery—not after the events that had befallen Novus as of late.

It was like a breath of fresh air (free of the smoke that had plagued Dawn Court for so long) to feel the luxury of velvet on her skin, to feel the way the tassels swayed and flowed when she moved. She wore the burgundy velvet that draped like spilled wine across her shoulders and flanks and glittered like stars beneath the moonlight. The delicate circlet on her brow dripped with rubies and pearls. Gold anklets around her slender ankles made a sound like wind chimes as she walked.

Her mood was serene and her expression soft, like a still, glassy pond in the middle of the Delumine forest. Not even a ripple stirred the surface. She had sipped the plum colored wine earlier from a crystal glass and it was like tasting heaven and felt even better—surreal ecstasy that filled her with a sense of contentment and delight. Most of Delumine’s supply had been destroyed in the fires and she could not recall a sweeter taste on her lips.

She explored the dreamlike rooms alone, content to be in her own company for the time being. She wandered into the underwater room and for the second time in her life, felt like she had been transported through a portal to another dimension, to another world. A world of dreams and unexplored things and of blues and greens and dancers twirling and whirling on the ballroom tiles.

Fish of vibrant colors and flowing fins, velvety translucent gauze flowing like the sea along the marble walls. She was transfixed, watching the golden fish hover serenely, altogether unperturbed by the lingering guests of the Night Court Masquerade. She wondered how they managed to ignore the stares, the unwavering scrutiny. Pavetta often felt like a fish in a glass globe. Would the feeling ever go away?

a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---

It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you?

T

his time when he walks through the rooms of the castle Veer wears nothing but his golden chains and golden-tipped feathers. He has long since shed his mask and wrapped himself up in boldness.

Najjad has already taken himself outside to wander the markets like a rabid beast just to see what interesting things he can shake loose for later. Here and there Veer will break out in brash laughter when the gryphon sends images of horses scattering before him like mice.

Denocte really should have kept their wall.

Each room he moves through is more wild than the last. Most of the mortals have lost themselves to drink and opiates. Singers have turned husky with exhaustion and musicians have grown mad with recklessness. In one room the floor is slick with the aftermath of clumsy horses and fragile magic. It tastes like rotten sugar on his lips and he sneers like a god as he walks through the crowd and smacks horses that stray too close with him with feathers and teeth. Soon they part for him like a sea parting around a glacier (although surely he feels like fire instead of ice).

On and on he moves through the rooms. Veer feels like he's hunting for something to look at, something to stave off the want rising up in him like a snake from a cave. He moves through a checkered room, though a library where couple are bedded like foxes and rabbits in piles of pillow. He even moves through a room that's hotter than the sun and that one tastes like sand and sweat.

And then he wanders into the sea like an orca, almost black against all the silver and the blue. He drags his feathers across the tanks of fish smiling as they swim far away from the foreignness of his form. Maybe they can smell through the inches of water the sun and blood on his skin. Maybe they smell death.

Veer moves to walk through this room too, his eyes passing over everything and pausing on nothing.

Nothing until her.

She looks like the color of old bones, struck through with watered down blood and coated in the crimson color of war. His golden eyes snag on her rubies, on the circlet upon her head and he thinks that perhaps she is pretending to be a queen tonight. Each of her steps sings, cold gold against hot flesh and his heart rises like a weapon in his chest.

Veer does not need to pretend to be a god when he walks through this room.

His steps are quiet as he follows her. He moves like a reaper although he lets his feather whisper terrible things in the pause between one of her singing steps and the next. It's not until he draws alongside her that he tucks his wings, silently into his sides. “Do you think they miss the oceans and the lakes?” Each of his teeth looks like a pearl plucked from the tongue of a clam when he smiles at her.

It's bright enough to blind, a wicked look that even the fish around them know to be cautious of.

She hears the chimes of jewelry before anything else, followed by the whisper of rustling feathers, and lastly, the sigh of the air around them as the stranger settles by her side. Pavetta stares a little; she can’t really help it. She has had enough of the sparkling plum wine to inhibit her emissary diplomatic manners for the evening.

He is unlike anyone she has ever seen before. His raw masculinity is undeniable and her first thought, however foolish it might be, is Fearghal? But then she blinks and the silly illusion of hopeless longing for a dead man passes. His scent is not right (not that it is displeasing); but oh, that cascade of black hair, black as obsidian at midnight.

And now that she breathes him in (she can’t help that, either), she realizes their scents are not so different after all. The same gritty, unembellished scent of the natural world, contrasting to her sweet perfume of lavender and vanilla. But the delicate golden chains that hug his skin like burning stars speaks otherwise…he likes to be noticed, he knows his physical appearance is appealing and wants to embellish it further. Or is it some sort of symbolic gesture, a decoration symbolic of culture or status?

She finds she is fascinated and wants to know more. Who are you?

She realizes she is staring blatantly (perhaps a bit too late though), and quickly looks back at the fishbowl. She can feel his gaze on her skin and for some reason, feels uncomfortable. As if he knows the rubies dotting her skin like droplets of blood and the glittering circlet on her brow are trying to hide or compensate for something. As if he knows she is pretending to be someone else tonight.

He flashes a grin; his teeth are too white, too stark in the dimly lit candlelight room of subtle blues and creams. The fish dart to the farthest side of the glass and she can’t help but feel like she should probably do the same.

But she is not a fish; she is a moth drawn to a flame, however cliche it may sound.

“Yes, of course.” What a peculiar, philosophical question. “Don’t you think so?

a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---

It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you?

V

eer does not mind the way her gaze feels a little heavy, like a silk shroud well-loved and covered in sand. He only smiles a little brighter and something in his gaze starts to spark and smolder. The look suggests that he knows all the thoughts running through her head, fueled no doubt by the liquor running through this party like a river. The look suggest that he knows and--

He approves.

His own look is lazy as it traces her, and as blatant as her own stare. There is no shame to be found in all the molten, golden heat of his eyes. The rubies reflect in his eyes like drops of blood that should look strange but instead look like they belong mixed in with all that glitz and wealth. Veer brushes his feathers against her skin just to see if she's smart enough to pull away, or if she's clever enough to stay.

He waits, counting the rhythm of air thrumming, sweetly under the skin of her flank. She looks away and he almost laughs before he allows his gaze to slowly trace the path her own took. And because he wants to drag it back, forcefully and quickly, he presses closer to speak only inches away from her neck. “They are fools if they miss the rivers and the lakes.” Veer brushes a wing against a tank, soft enough that she might see he can be gentle as well as bold.

It's a lie of course, but he shakes his head so that his gold might sing and pull her gaze away.

“There is nothing for them in the dark waters besides death.” His wing flutters like a million butterflies when he tucks it back to his side. It's a lovely sound. The spark in his gaze turns to wildfire. “At least here they can die with beauty around them instead of darkness.” He's not looking at the fish anymore.

Veer is only looking at her and her rubies that shine like blood beneath the moonlight.